


Of Lovelessness and Counterfeiting

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Not between Geralt and Jaskier), Angst, Asexual Jaskier, Asexuality, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24072880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: There must have always been something profoundly wrong with him, Jaskier thought, for him to be so unable to love the way he ought to.Then Geralt entered his life, and Jaskier learned that perhaps the affections he had to offer were enough.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 57
Kudos: 288





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Although I heavily headcanon Jaskier as bi/pan, there was this really wonderful ace Jaskier prompt on the Witcher kink meme a while ago that really touched me, and I thought I'd try and write something for it.
> 
> TW: there might be some light dubious consent because of Jaskier not yet figuring out he's ace and essentially forcing himself into sexual situations because he feels he must, but nothing bad between him and Geralt.

When Jaskier turned eight, he was told he’d marry and settle down and have a family and one day become a viscount. That he would make his parents proud and make them lots of little grandchildren and a big family that he would love with his whole heart. He didn’t really understand, was told that love was nothing more than profoundly liking someone – a woman who would smile at him and to whom he would be kind and provide, and who he would wish to be happy and be happy alongside her. He saw that his mother was happy with children, with his father when they kissed and touched hands and lay back together on their bed as he would read poetry to her and whisper sweet nothings in her ear before kissing her neck, thought that it would come in time.

When Jaskier was thirteen, the children – mostly young teenagers, now- his age started talking of how, later in life, when they were adults, they would settle down with families, and have bairns of their own, lavish their wives with the tender care they deserved, would kiss and hug their offspring every evening before bed and how love seemed to be wanting a family, kissing one’s partner after a day’s work, softly touching their hand when out in public when buying bread from the baker’s and maybe a tumble in the sheets when the sun set. Love was expressed in the flesh, it meant touching one’s fingers, one’s forehead, one’s lips, other parts he was too young to quite grasp, he didn’t yet understand. Thought that, it too, would come in time.

When Jaskier was sixteen, boys began to discover themselves in ways their parents could not help, started talking of more mature wants and urges and needs and fantasies they’d indulge in later in life. Love became physical, naked bodies exploring each other in the private sanctuary of a bed, hands running down the length of one’s thighs and up one’s sides, over an expanse of too much skin and in places Jaskier did not feel he ever wished to be felt. It was licking and biting and kissing parts of someone they would only entrust to you to see, it was making them sing with pleasures only another body could bring, letting oneself be worshipped by another’s hands and reach notes one could only dream of.  
Jaskier did not understand, did not feel such need, he did not have such urges. Thought, like earlier, that it would come in time.

When Jaskier was eighteen, the boys grew more lecherous and more boisterous in their touch, talked of how their hands conquered the body of a lover, and how they enjoyed giving and taking pleasure alike with far more than just their hands. Love, he learnt then, was to solely be experienced through the flesh, resided purely in touch: kissing with an insistent tongue, brushing between one’s legs with one’s knee, pressing down on one’s chest with an insistent hand, adventurous fingers and mouth mapping out affection and tender care upon another’s skin. He’d begin to see men grope and prod and make lewd comments he’d not understood before, be more aggressive in their pursuit of love with wandering hands and unprompted lecherous kisses. He would hear sounds behind closed doors too, might even have written a dirty song or two about them for good coin, his hands far more at ease around ink and a feather than a man or woman’s thighs. He knew, still, what was going on, had endured enough vivid descriptions from the other boys his age to get the picture, but never felt the urge to partake in such things, never felt the want. Thought like earlier, that it would come, in time.

Though he did begin to get comments about it. Oh, they were always from good intentioned people – _Julian, haven’t found a woman yet?_ Or _There’s a whore downtown who I’m sure you could give a good time to,_ or _I’m sure you want it somewhere,_ only the years passed and the flame of desire for such corporeal love never took root in the deepest parts of Jaskier’s heart. If anything, he would feel his skin crawl if he happened to pass the brothel by and the sounds of skin upon skin and throaty moans he’d hear from it more than enough for him to get a clear picture. Such was the way humans showed each other love and devotion, and he couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring himself to. It got him remarks and raised eyebrows among his friends, snide comments behind his back, at times too, and while Julian grew to be a good performer, plastered a smile and acted like he did not hear such whispers, in the intimacy of his own room he felt something chip away inside him, left him a little more hollow the next morning.

When Jaskier was twenty-one, his parents sprang upon him an arranged a marriage. The lady in question was of noble bloodline, said to have a good standing in court in Redenia and that both families would expect children and heirs to their name soon after they were to be wed. Jaskier refused, told them he wished to pursue his studies in Oxenfurt to become a professor and sing his songs to the Continent, that he could not be tied down to a house and home, his spirit too wild to be chained to a pile of rocks and a woman he could never bring himself to love the right way. Perhaps he put it under the guise of not wishing to settle down, perhaps because the thought of settling down with a woman, marrying her, entailed obligations of producing heirs and sharing with her both his body and his bed.

It really wasn’t the poor girl’s fault, she was lovely, had honey-brown locks tumbling down her shoulder, the sweetest of voices and her fingers were ever so delicate as she flipped through a book of romantic ballads with the greatest reverence, as if she understood the respect one ought to hold for such poetical craft. Jaskier had seen her many times, the way her eyes lit up when she happened upon an amusing personification, the pearly white of her teeth when she laughed with her friends, her hands ever so graceful when she  
happened to run them in the soft fur of her trusted dog. He really did love her.

He merely did not think it possible for him to love her _like that,_ like he _ought_ to. The thought of it made him recoil, the broken pieces of his soul unable to fill in the part of him he so sorely was lacking. He tried telling his mother, begged her to understand that he loved the lady, just not like that, that his crude mockery of affections would do naught but tarnish her gentle heart and turn their marriage to ash before the flames of love even got a chance to blossom.

“A broken lover is better than no lover at all. Do the family proud, Julian.” Was what she had said, eyes kind and hands gentle around his own, and Julian’s heart broke because even after all this time, even after he’d tried explaining it as best he could, she still did not understand.

A week later, he ran away with nothing but a few coins and the lute on his back.

Running away from home wasn’t easy. His heart ached with longing and regret – he could still _feel_ , it was a relief to notice. He missed loving his parents, he missed loving the way the sun shone in the morning over the apple tree in the garden and the way the baker smiled at him as he bought bread. Jaskier loved that, his smile, and his strong hands full of adoration for his craft, rough when kneading the dough, ever so gentle when adorning the top of the mix with the bakery’s signature coat of arms. And the florist’s nimble fingers as she would assemble a bouquet and knew every colour one could imagine so many flowers had she seen in her short lifetime, and the way the bookkeeper’s nose would scrunch up when their heart was fit to burst with happiness, eyes sparkling as they would read over a touching metaphor about rising suns and blossoming buttercups. Jaskier fell in love easily, with them and countless other people, but knew he’d never be able to love the way he should. There was probably something wrong with him.

He tried, then, making a respectable life out of his craft, pouring the love he could no longer share with past paramours into the words and inflexions of his songs and offering it freely to whoever would deign to listen. It wasn’t always easy, bread could be short some months when people did not warm to his singing and his pants grew loose when his waist grew gaunt, but Jaskier was free, free to be who he wished and to go wherever he wanted, love whoever he pleased, no marriage or consumption of it expected of him. Out in the real world, his brokenness did not bother mostly, it wasn’t obvious like it had been back home, in Lettenhove. He met people, and fell in love with them too, over and over again.

It was long evenings over a hearty stew in the corner of an inn with a milkmaid, her lovely hands callused from her hard work and gentle honesty in her voice as they talked idly of aspirations and far-away wishes. Their hands would brush, and Jaskier would feel his heart flutter because those hands beheld _life_ and _experience_ and so much he could write about. The blacksmith and the fisherman were not so different, fine bodies and gentle hearts and mundane life-stories that rang like music to his ears the bard fell in love with too as they leisurely chatted into the early hours of the morning, when the last candle was nearly out and they were whispering heartfelt sincerities to one another.

Love came easily to Jaskier, then, and he was easy to love too, or so he thought. Until whatever man or woman he was enthralled with grew tired of their idle chat, his rhymes and personifications no longer enough to have sparkles dance in their eyes and satisfy the amorous cravings of their souls. They weren’t broken like him, their heart was hungry for more, for something _real_ and _tangible,_ and in turn, they tried seducing him, asked him to follow them back to their bed and share in their company for the night. Jaskier would grow cold, then, the soft candle between them a brazen barrier his misshapenness could no longer cross, and would try to politely refuse, for while Jaskier loved, he just did not love _like that._

Sometimes, however, when times were exceptionally hard, his doublet torn and his belly pulled taut with the lack of coin his precarious lifestyle afforded him, the promise of one night in a warm bed proved almost enough to lure Jaskier in, only the thought of what he would have to give to get it stopping him. Jaskier just was not interested, still, couldn’t bring himself to partake in such intimacy with a stranger, no matter how much he may love them, no matter the coin or shelter they may promise him. He would rather have gone hungry than do something he could not come back from and spend the next week flinching at the ghost of hands he did not think he wished to be anywhere near his skin.

Talking, singing, dancing, dreaming, poetry recitals and literary analysis with another being, Jaskier would gladly have sold his soul to them for just that. A carnal expression of love in the sheets, a touch he was sure to feel crawling under his skin for the rest of his days, he just _couldn’t._

It was absolutely ridiculous, and he still understood not _why_. Around him, the world continued to spin, life moved on, and what he could not do, everybody else did, seemed to have no qualms about it. When the bard kept an ear out for rowdy men in a tavern, some even said it felt nice, to be loved and cherished by someone else like that, to have one’s hands run across flesh, raise goose bumps and shivers, to have someone they trusted so completely with their heart to create feelings and sensations that would send their minds reeling as their lovers handled them with the upmost care and reverence. Surely, Jaskier thought, then, at the rowdy chorus of agreements that arose from the rest of the patrons, such a manifestation of love was to be desired, avidly sought after.

And maybe, later, in the cold and solitary space of his own bed, he began to think with more insistence that _he_ was the one who was broken, somewhere he could not see. He tried to sense it, brought his trembling hands to his chest, right over his aching heart, wished he could _feel_ it, run his fingers over the cracks that undoubtedly must have been there. For where else could the damage reside but his deformed heart, for him to so terribly misunderstand what love was?

He travelled, from town to town and from tavern to tavern, and what he’d learnt as a young noble was true: men proclaimed their love for their wives, other men’s wives, concubines and whores, other men, sometimes a man and woman both if such was their preference, with loud and rambunctious voices, full of confidence and experience, like they knew what it was to love, and really, who was Jaskier to question them when he did not understand? They raved about their performances in bed, sang of sensual sensations with oft crude vocabulary to accompany their retelling – if he were to say so – to the buoyant and enthusiastic applause of their audience, spun tales and ballads of supple curves upon which they ran their hands, fine thighs upon which they would sit with great assurance as they would give a man the most intense experience of his life, and when the night bled into the early hours of the morning and their talk pertained to far more intimate gestures and more subtle expressions of love muffled by wet kisses and well-placed touches, sweat-soaked brow and slick skin entangled together as their hearts beat in unison, Jaskier was once again left floundering, wondering why the fuck he wished not for such things too.

It wasn’t that Jaskier wasn’t interested in fine company, it was just… Again, not _like that._ He would have much rather sang about such exploits – would do so it with little qualms, knew it raked in money from the drunkards staying late into the night at whatever establishment he happened to be performing at- than physically partake in them himself. And yet, despite the countless inns and taverns he’d stopped in, despite the innumerable ways men and women talked of how wonderful a sensation it was, to partaker in the discovery of another’s body, to have two souls sing together in pleasure, Jaskier never once felt the want to experience such feelings, never felt the urge to perform such intimate acts in such company.

Was it wrong, to feel no appetite for the gentle pleasures of the flesh when everybody else so obviously did? When it seemed to be so inherent to the very fabric of his human nature?

He questioned it, sometimes, late into the night in another solitary bed, in a nameless inn at the side of a lonely road. Lay there, unmoving, one hand lazily draped over his eyes and the other over his crooked heart as he let his mind wander, imagined what it might be like, to not be so broken.

If he fell asleep with a heavy lump in his throat and dampness upon his cheeks, well there was no lover to ever be privy to it.

Insatiably in search of good company, Jaskier liked rambling, singing, and reciting poetry and when a woman or man he would happen to be talking to smiled, flashed pearly white teeth and her perfect skin would crease just slightly at the edge of her mouth with human imperfection, when he relayed a burly blacksmith with the tale of a formidable unicorn, beautiful and majestic in its wildness, and watched with a fluttering heart as his their eye crinkled with happiness and their hands brushed ever so softly, Jaskier was over the moon as he gave his heart to them too. It was all he could ever ask for, there was no need for a frantic rut in the sheets for him to express is affections.

He still tried to understand it, sometimes, when his travel-weary body would slump upon another cosy bed and, after pushing off the overt advances from the barmaid he lay there, still, skin tingling from her assured hands. He tried with increasing desperation and a heavy heart to figure out where that missing piece of him was, _why_ it was missing, what must have happened for it to never have surfaced, so he might one day feel complete. And when no answer came, Jaskier, in his despair, began to let his many paramours get more adventurous, let himself be brought back to their room and let concubines run their hands over him and frustrated husbands bed him with urgency. He tried – he really _did_ \- to immerse himself fully the moment, in what they would do to him, in what he would do to them when they asked it of him, he really did try to grasp what exactly it was they seemed to get out of such a frantic rut.

The perfidious answer he’d not yet managed to grasp remained still as elusive, when Jaskier escaped through a narrow window the next morning, his trusted lute on his back and his meagre belongings in his arms. All he had left was ever more confusion and a feeling of _wrongness_ crawling under his skin, because _what the fuck was wrong with him?_

For after so many years of travel and a string of nameless lovers left in his wake, and still, Jaskier had yet to find the amorous spark so many praised to the high heavens when they sang eulogies to their couplings, there was little else to draw from it all than the fact that the problem lay solely with _him,_ did it not? It wasn’t them, ever, the fleeting lovers he gave pieces of his heart to were tender and gentle, most of the time – perhaps a couple may have left bite marks and faint bruises, perhaps some had been a little too rough, at times, no doubt venting the frustration of a hard day, but Jaskier counted his blessings that he’d, so far, not had the misfortune of encountering any paramour of the more unsavoury kind. Besides, such marks for him to remember his lovers by was an expression of their affection, surely it was not his place to refuse them.

Was it an affliction, then?

It must have been, for his heart to ache so.

He’d dared ask a teacher, once, when the heavy expectation of marriage had loomed over his young shoulders. The severe features of the elderly scholar had relaxed, somewhat, the creases of old age around his eyes bespeaking of many years of experience, surely a young Julian could trust what he had to say? The teacher had chuckled lightly, no doubt quite taken aback by a young viscount’s inquisitive mind, and had then dismissed him with naught but a chuckle and light words that felt too heavy as they hit him. He told him that little Julian ought not to worry his pretty little head over such frivolous concerns, that the heart’s desire for physical passion came to every soul in due time. He just needed to open himself up to it, and let it happen when it chose to manifest itself in his body.

And Jaskier _had_ tried, with a farmer’s son, a nameless butcher and even a barmaid. Perhaps it was less scholar than what his professors would have deemed acceptable for his noble rank, but he’d thought a less scholarly approach might have been more favourable, might have given him the answers he’d so desperately sought. Like much of his previous attempts, Julian was left wanting, the poor barmaid giving him an achingly sympathetic smile when he stilled beneath her touch, her hands frozen where they hovered over the jut if his hipbone when his body seized. It became clear, then, that neither of them was enjoying the night, and with parting words of him probably being a late bloomer and that he’d come to enjoy sharing in physical pleasure in time, she’d taken her leave, another dent in his glass heart left in her wake.

Jaskier had tried another time, after that, had bat his pretty eyelashes and let a different stranger he could not remember the name of drag him to their bed, had let the man do as he willed with him, and still, there had been no spark for him that night either.

It was with a lump in his throat and tearful eyes that he awoke to cold sheets and an empty bed the next morning, the stranger long gone by then, and all Jaskier could remember was the acrid smell of heartache and broken promises hanging in the air with vivid clarity. It was as far as one could imagine from the warm intimacy tavern gossip painted such bonding as.

Even the ghost of the stranger’s touch upon his shoulders brought nothing to him.

It was indeed a sorry spectacle to be centre stage of, and quite absurdly, seemed to be one Jaskier had the part of leading actor in over the next couple of years. He tried again, and again and again with increasing desperation, and the ache in his heart and the feeling of utter _wrongness_ crawling under his skin only got worse from then on, for the more he tried, the more it became clear to him that he somehow _did not want_ this. Jaskier would have rather offered his many bed mates limericks and ballads as they would merely hold each other, talk of grand epics and philosophical musings as they would drown in each other’s eyes, knew his soul to be far more fulfilled by such fruitful exchanges than the clinical slap of flesh upon flesh and his utter inability to either deliver or receive pleasurable love.

The woman with fire-red curls he happened to cross in a market was an ethereal muse sent to bring a little perfection back to the warped and unholy world they lived in, the man with pepper-hair strewn with silver strands bespeaking of a lifetime of knowledge in matters of love as he recited classical theatre passages in the town square an inspiration Jaskier fell head over heels for, and he praised them both in the most heartfelt writing he could muster, a dance of gentle and formidable words that paled to capture the love he wished he could give them. He could do little more than that, aside perhaps from letting them, in turn, express their more carnal love for him when, once again, he let them both push him on his back in yet another nameless inn.

Their untarnished affection seeped through their fingers, brutally honest as it seared his flesh and Jaskier froze again, heart in his throat, wished ever so badly he could want this too for he really did love them both. The shattered parts holding him together, however, crumbled once more under their hands, and they ended things before they’d even had the chance to explore what it was they had between them. Disappointment hung in the air, heavy and acrid, his fault once again.

Jaskier was accustomed to disappointment, he’d grown used to it, by now, had long ago accepted that the gift of _true love_ would never be his to hold.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There must have been something inside of him, Jaskier decided then, so fundamentally part of him and festering just beneath his skin, souring the very core of who he was. If he could only figure out what, exactly, his problem was, he was certain that the heavy burden of constantly feeling like an outsider would be lifted from his shoulders, no longer would he then have to try so hard to fit in and perform for the people he encountered in taverns like in bedsheets".

Jaskier erred, once again, let his heart wander and followed along complacently, never staying in the same city for too long. He would tell himself it was out of precaution, that there was only so long his art could entertain in one place after all, before the local citizens grew tired of his singing, and that it was not out of fear of crossing his past paramours or of having to evade the ever increasing bittersweet rumours his fleeting halts left in their wake – _the bard who sang of love and knew nothing of it._ After so many years on the road, Jaskier had cultivated quite the reputation for himself, his tendency to sleep around with whoever proved to be willing having garnered him quite the promiscuous name-calling: a lover of all shapes and sizes, if people were being generous, an ever wandering whore if they happened to not take kindly to his person. Jaskier cared little for the monikers, supposed it was better than the truth he hid beneath his skin – a wilted flower who could never love the right way.

It was also easier to leave, to commit to memory the faces of his many lovers instead of seeing them in the flesh ever again and then shatter his shrivelled heart further as he pondered over broken promises and could-have-beens if he just wasn’t so… _Broken._

After one particularly bad encounter, he even resorted to seeking the help of an apothecary. He’d spent weeks setting aside whatever coin he could spare. He tried explaining his predicament, how his heart ached from lack of companionship, yet his body seemed to refuse to indulge in it when the time came to do the deed, but like all before him, the old man understood not. Like all before him, he merely gave him a light chuckle and a good-hearted slap on the back, told him that he’d been no doubt drinking too much ale and that, surely, he could just bat his pretty eyelashes and a fine prostitute would be more than willing to bed him that night.

Jaskier shuddered at the idea of it, left the establishment with a heavy and damaged heart.

There must have been something _wrong_ inside of him, Jaskier decided then, so fundamentally part of him and festering just beneath his skin, souring the very core of who he was. If he could only figure out what, exactly, his problem was, he was certain that the heavy burden of constantly feeling like an outsider would be lifted from his shoulders, no longer would he then have to try so hard to fit in and perform for the people he encountered in taverns like in bedsheets.

Perhaps, Jaskier thought, it was why he latched on to the Witcher – to _Geralt_ – so quickly, then.

He was pretty hard to miss, all golden eyes, silver hair and mysteriously brooding in the corner of the inn he’d been playing at, and with but one look at him, Jaskier knew him to be the perfect muse for his next song. Geralt was gruff, all muscle and hard of heart, a man of few words and who said he had no emotions – except that he _did._ And _oh,_ did he have _so many_ of them.

They began travelling together, shortly after their fateful encounter in Posada, at the edge of the world, or rather, Jaskier imposed his company upon Geralt, and the Witcher, albeit perhaps a little reluctant at the start, eventually seemed to warm up to him and became amenable to him tagging along. It did not take long, then, for the bard to consider him his closest friend, a couple of adventures at the most. Geralt slew monsters when it was asked of him, and would then spend whatever coin they earned in the corner of an inn, around a tankard of ale and brooding in silence as he sang to their audience. And after, once the thunder of applause had died down and Jaskier was allowed to breathe, they would share a meal and he would do the talking – the weather, Geralt’s next contract, abstract philosophizing about life, the Witcher merely went with it – sometimes, when his friend seemed in the mood to talk more than usual, it was even Geralt’s many paramours – Yennefer, Renfri and the occasional prostitute he would find when they halted in the middle of nowhere. They would sleep in separate rooms, then, and meet up at the crack of dawn the next morning, and if Jaskier’s heart broke a little more when he realized the Witcher – who smelt of a good night’s rest and the lingering passion of his bedsheets – was more human than he ever could be, well such musings were for the troubadour’s fragile heart to nurse alone.

“No angry husbands this morning?” Geralt asked him, the crack of a smile at the edge of his lips, and if it weren’t for his words, Jaskier would almost have dared to ask him to greet him as such every morning, “That noblewoman seemed awfully taken with you last night.”

She had been, she’d even kissed him, after, when she’d dragged him outside. She truly had been beautiful, little twinkles sparkling in her cognac-brown eyes, as her hands swayed along his doublet, delicate but assured fingers upon which sat ornate rings bespeaking of her status. Jaskier fell in love again, then, and it _almost_ could have been a wonderful night: the sky was clear, the stars danced and the crescent of the moon their only witness. They could have just sat there, beneath such a beautiful tapestry and Jaskier could have composed an ode to her elegant tresses and the uniqueness of each freckle dotting her face had she not pushed him against the wall and kissed him senseless, Jaskier having to stop her wandering hands when he felt their intention at his belt.

He fell in love with her, truly.

_Just not like that._

And like all the others before her, disappointment came to twist her beautiful features, and she left him, returned to a husband who could no doubt truly love her.

“I suppose that our love was not compatible.” Is what he replied, evasive.

Geralt deigned not to comment, thank Melitele, and Jaskier was grateful the Witcher did not pry. After last night’s heartbreak, the stark reminder of his damage still burning in his breast, of how _un_ lovable he was, he was not sure he would withstand his finest muse bearing witness to all the ugly cracks that adorned his body like a second skin and twisted his love into something rotten and perverse. Geralt deserved not that kind of affection.

Geralt, who foolishly thought himself utterly unlovable, deserved so much more than the crude forgery of it Jaskier could only ever hope to gift him.

For for all that Geralt repeatedly said that he cared not, he did _feel_ a lot, for a Witcher. A true masterpiece Jaskier wondered how someone so imperfect could have brought to life, Geralt was gentleness and anger, passion and callousness, fondness and rage, an amalgamation of oxymoronic emotions and Jaskier knew, then, as he bared witness to such art, that never would he have to find another muse again, so far had he fallen. For he did, then, his foolish and damaged heart fell in love again, with the gentle and affectionate smile Geralt would always give Roach, the slight twinkle in his eye as they would watch the sun set after another long day trailing on the road, the love and care he put not into words but his body spoke for him, as his hands tended to his armour with far more delicacy than the human ones Jaskier had once let roam along his person.

He was not proud to admit it, but he used Geralt, at first. The Witcher had been naught but a curiosity for him, a source of inspiration and easy coin – people were easy to please, tales of the Witcher’s heroics were effortless to spin to them – but as Jaskier travelled with him, and bore witness to pieces of Geralt no other human ever would he was ever careful to fully admire the infinite emotions he could read upon his face, handled with delicate care what the Witcher entrusted only him to see, and fell for him head first. Jaskier was drowning, then, was not sure, at times, if he would ever surface again.

He’d fallen in love many times before, thought he knew what it was, but with Geralt, it felt like something else, slow and glowing embers at first, much like what he’d felt for countless lovers prior to him, yet the more he indulged in Geralt’s company, the more he saw and felt of him, the more entirely consuming the fire became, until Jaskier’s very heart was set aflame, and by the time he realized what it was he was feeling, it was far too late to smother out the inferno of his emotions.

He fell in love with Geralt’s sharp profile, the angle of his features and how the shape of his body was pleasing to look at.

And the way he spoke, deep, gravely, yet a hint of kindness belayed his words, as Geralt never said much, but his few sparse words were always chosen carefully, said far more than one would think at first glance.

It was in the way he held himself – tall and assured when it was necessary, and allowed himself to curve over a little afterwards, when such posturing was no longer needed, Geralt trusting Jaskier enough to see the little cracks in this cold Witcher persona he liked putting out for the world to see, to see the person of heart and feelings that lay beneath.

It was the care and fondness he translated in his every gesture, whether it be the way he combed through Roach’s mane, fingers slow and soft as they slowly undid the knots a frantic gallop had put there, or the way he handled the spit when he roasted a catch, wrist fluid and bespeaking of a lifetime of knowledge Jaskier could not begin to scratch the surface of, knowledge Geralt would sometimes impart on him when he talked of Vesemir and Kaer Mohren with a wistful note to his voice.

It was the curve of a smile when they halted at an inn, a warm bowl of soup filling their starving bellies, or when he would recall with affection a time long past when he was but a young soul who got up to mischief with other boys called Eskel, Coen and Lambert.

Jaskier did not mind, really. It was a nice way to seal his fate, drowning in love, quite befitting for the poet and artist of the heart he fancied himself to be, if one were to ask him.

Geralt was his finest muse, a free spirit who wandered, full of destiny and heroics and heartbreak, who was as formidable to witness in taking down a kikimora as he was tender when soaping his silver hair, a living oxymoron a poet like him could not help _but_ fall in love with. Jaskier let his songs speak what his heart could not, poured into the words he penned down the affections he would never be able to translate into touch. When cast a cursory glance his way, Geralt indeed came across as cold, closed off, a little gruff around the edges and bespoke not of a fine conversation over a tankard of ale, but Jaskier soon came to learn that the Witcher’s demeanour was sadly due to his upbringing, the poor man utterly convinced he was not one whose right it was to show emotion. And Jaskier, poet who lived to _feel_ and sang of it wherever they went, merely told him Geralt was worth feeling, that emotions were worth it because they enhanced life and made it beautiful, and Geralt was worth that.

It took a while, for Geralt was nothing if not stubborn, but after a couple of adventures, a brush or two with death and a child surprise, when Geralt learnt that he needed to talk and not grunt, that he could afford to be soft and vulnerable in a world that strived to make him ever harder, that his heart was his to feel, Geralt eventually grew receptive to the idea of a together, and Jaskier was elated. When the White Wolf pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead after he helped him bathe and Jaskier would run his fingers through his long silver locks, he was pretty certain his poor human heart was about to combust with happiness, for after having lived what felt an entire lifetime, he’d now at last found someone who loved him for who he was, flaws he’d once thought utterly _un_ lovable and all, and who did not ask for more than he was willing to give.

After they sealed what it was they now shared with words – _“I love you”_ was hard to say, when it meant so much, Geralt had needed a while to muster his wits to do so. And that was fine, Jaskier was a patient man, knew better than to push – they both indulged in the little things: Jaskier loved that Geralt smiled more, Geralt appreciated that Jaskier cared and was all delicate gestures when he helped him wash. Geralt was easy to love: his lax profile bathed in the golden sun filtering through the window in the morning, the curve of a smile he tried less to hide when a young child dared come forward and asked to pet Roach on the nose, or merely the way he sighed, content, around a bowl of hearty stew after a long day’s travel, and opposed not when Jaskier covered his hand with his own. It was mostly mundane little things, where Geralt learned to feel and accept emotions, and bearing witness to it felt like it was enough to fill the pieces of his heart Jaskier was surely missing. And when, later, bodies laced with exhaustion from a demanding contract or hours of performing, they both fell into bed together, they slept peacefully, limbs entangled and Jaskier’s heart was full.

They lived simply, sharing in each other’s company as they erred from one contract to the next, Geralt making coin from his clients and Jaskier from his songs. Geralt commented less on his sleeping habits and his seducing, then, and the bard tried to do it more sparsly. That was not to say he would ever pass up the opportunity for an impassioned conversation with a beautiful woman or handsome gentleman if it were perchance offered to him, he merely refused their advances when they later tried to ensnare him back into their beds, had learnt, over the course of his travels with Geralt, that he did not always have to say _yes_ to intimacy he did not want and did not always have to justify it.

It hurt, sometimes, when the once glowing face of a strapping young man turned sour when things obviously did not pan out the way he’d hoped, and Jaskier still wished he could love them the right way, but Geralt’s echo of _‘you don’t always have to sleep with people, you know’,_ resonated too much with his heart. Instead, he left them, bereft, took to his lute and sang away as he patiently awaited for Geralt’s return, and Jaskier would then leave his esteemed audience to tend to the Witcher’s many scrapes and bruises in the sanctity of their room.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Geralt had said, once, eyes downcast as he looked upon his scarred body with shame and revulsion. It pained Jaskier, when it dawned upon him that his White Wolf thought so little of himself that a couple of scars would push him away, and instead of heeding his words, he loved and fussed over Geralt where his mentors had not, tried to make up for lost time as he rubbed expensive chamomile into his skin and admired the sculpt of his body and the way his eyes closed when he sighed in content.

He told him, then, that he ought not to be ashamed of them, that they mapped his story, were part of him just like his golden eyes and silver hair.

Jaskier wished he could have told him that he loved him not any less because of them. His twisted heart would not let him utter the words, however.

“I’m doing it because I want to, because I care.” He said instead, heart poured into every one of his words, for he meant them then, with profound sincerity.

Geralt was oddly exposed, in those moments they shared, pliant under his hands and relaxed in the warm water of the tub, his head tossed back carelessly as he rested. The faint glow of whatever candles the innkeeper had managed to spare them brought out his striking features, and as he worked, it was not lost upon Jaskier that he was privileged to witness such raw vulnerability. He understood, then, the amount of trust Geralt put in his hands, and fell in love with him a little more.

Once his ministrations done, he lightly pecked Geralt’s cheek, a fleeting gesture of affection that said far more than his words ever could.

The next time they halted in an inn, there was only one room to spare with a single bed to the right of the door, and before Jaskier could offer to take the floor, come up with some bullshit about Grealt needing his beauty sleep and having the bed for himself, the Witcher shut him up with a single glare and an offer Jaskier could have turned down if he wished, but the look upon Geralt’s features, so open and honest, made such a choice impossible, and so they shared.

It was surprisingly… Nice? Comfortable? Safe? The lettered bard was not sure what word best applied.

Jaskier kept his undershirt on where Geralt slept without, and, in the little hours of the morning, when the singing birds on the tree outside roused him far too early, he reluctantly found himself lifting the Witcher’s hand up off his hip when he felt it drifting too low, where it had no doubt strayed from his waist during the night. It wasn’t easy, and not for the first time did Jaskier wish he could love this – especially because this was _Geralt,_ and it was a long time ago, now, that he’d given him his whole heart – but so long as he’d not figured out what was wrong with him, Jaskier could never take any pleasure from it. Perhaps, he thought, he could ask Yennefer, when their paths crossed again. The Witch must no doubt have had an answer somewhere in her vast collection of grimoires and old scrolls, and if not there, then he knew she was experienced in matters of such intimate pleasure, she made no secret of her affinity for it. Well, Jaskier would ask if he mustered up enough courage to do so, for while they shared a cordial relationship, she remained no less quite the intimidating woman.

Once he understood, however, once Jaskier got to the root of the problem and fixed himself, then he would be sure to let Geralt touch him however he pleased, if such was his desire to express his affections.

But Yennefer would have to be accommodating for a while, in the meantime, Jaskier patiently waited for Geralt to awaken by the window, fully dressed and pouring over a new poem. If the bard happened to keep a little more distance between them during the day, neither one of them was prone to comment on the fact.

The time after that, Geralt and he parted ways for the night, the Witcher giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder and chuckled, “I have no doubt you’ll find a willing partner to stick your sausage in. We’ll meet up at the town square in the morning, don’t be late.”

Jaskier laughed. He laughed, for it was far easier to laugh and feign light-heartedness over the matter than to openly admit to Geralt that he was not like that, that there was something profoundly wrong and irreparably damaged in him as he watched him go, forlorn. It was easier to acquiesce than to admit that he didn’t enjoy it, did not think he ever had.

Jaskier stayed alone that night, his aching heart for only company as he wrote an ode to the White Wolf and let Geralt own it completely, and _oh_ was it not such a grandiose way to seal his fate but to feel it burn in his breast?

It took Geralt a while longer to figure out, so incredibly hard was it to get it through to his thick skull that affection and partnership were things he was worthy of, so difficult the concept of intimacy was for him to grasp, but when Geralt was willing to try something sincere and real between them, something that went beyond mere friendship and the tentative relationship they’d so far built, that what he and Jaskier had had long ago transcended the line of mere platonic affection, he was careful with his emotions, a first kiss surprisingly delicate and sweet for someone of such an imposing stature.

“It’s a good thing arrogant lords don’t know how sweet you look when you’re confused.” Jaskier said, as he muffled a laugh in Geralt’s neck, felt the vibrations of the Withcer’s usual _hmm_ in his skin.

Jaskier was patient, when Geralt needed time, tried to be reassuring, when he noticed the hints of persistent doubt creep upon his lover’s face and had to remind him that he was worth this, that he truly _did_ love him. That he would gladly remind him so for the rest of his mortal life if it was what it took for Geralt to accept it in his heart.

“You really mean that.” He said, once, voice unsure and shaking with emotion, barely above a whisper, like he still could not bring himself to believe it.

“Of course, you big oaf. I do.” And Jaskier wasted not another second, sealed his promise with a kiss.

Geralt reciprocated, learned, after a while, to pour himself into it too, and it made Jaskier’s heart flutter like a hummingbird’s, songs and poems bursting to be written as he clung to him.

He was head over heels for the Witcher, then.

And, for a while, everything was fine. Jaskier lead the dance and Geralt learnt the steps, perhaps a little clumsily at first, but as he gradually took to indulging in little gestures, as they began to figure out what was meaningful and what was not, as Geralt began to express what pleased him and what did not – hands in his hair, a kiss behind his ear – and when he asked him the same question, Jaskier had but one answer to give him.

“You, you’re enough.” And he wondered, then, how people could ever feel such visceral hatred for Geralt, when he was so easy to love, when he had so much love to give, when even the pale imitations of what he deserved that Jaskier mustered for him satisfied him enough to dare say so aloud.

They talked with their hearts, and touched where the other was amenable, Geralt learnt to be greeted by a hug and a kiss on the lips after a hunt, Jaskier learnt to expect Geralt’s hand on his own when he wrapped them around his torso, as he sat behind him on Roach, perhaps even a kiss on the cheek when Geralt was feeling cheeky and caught him unawares.

The kisses and the hugs, the sparse but meaningful words and the sleeping next to each other became somewhat of a routine, so much so, that Jaskier was lulled into a false sense of security, enclosed in a bubble where his damage could not touch him. It was enough, for Geralt.

He should have known better, known it would catch up to him eventually, send another lover running away, after they bared witness to the loveless creature he hid beneath his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind comments and kudos :)


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was just Jaskier, and Jaskier and what he was willing to offer was enough, for Geralt".

He should have expected it, really. Jaskier ought to have known better, by now, that if he truly loved Geralt, he should have been prepared to express it physically at some point: the Witcher was not broken like him, and love, as he’d learnt so well, was expressed through the flesh. Geralt liked to sleep around, enjoyed the supple body of another to spend the night with and lavish in the love he had to give, and such affection was not Jaskier’s to begrudge him when the Witcher so obviously got from it a pleasure the bard could never hope to understand. Jaskier had to remind himself, then, that it was _he_ who was broken and damaged and unlovable, who could not hope to be what Geralt deserved, ever.

And the evening had been going _so_ well! Of course he’d just _had_ to fuck it up.

It really was not anything out of the ordinary: Geralt was out on a contract, Jaskier staying behind at their current humble abode, and collecting whatever coin his singing happened to entice. Later, the Witcher came back, thankfully in one piece but with quite a nasty gash upon his shoulder – the ugly wound covered in entrails, blood and other things he did not wish to linger on – and Jaskier had not wasted even a second before whisking him off to their room, for some tender care and gentle ministrations, bandaging the cuts and scrapes that needed it after Geralt had washed off the remains from his skin.

It was only after, that Geralt grasped the potential severity his wound could have wrought upon him, the Witcher seemed all too aware of what a precarious lifestyle he lived, and had not wasted his breath with idle small talk. Once towelled off and somewhat semi-decent, he’d taken hold of the sleeves of his shirt, and kissed him on the lips. Yet there was more to it than what they usually shared, and keen to take his lead, Jaskier had merely responded, gave back as much as he received and thought little else of Geralt’s eagerness aside from, perhaps, the fact that he likely needed a way to wind down from his earlier fighting and habitual brazen flirting with Death, and seemingly took little notice of Geralt manhandling them both towards the bed. Only when the back of his knees hit the wooden frame and when the Witcher tried pushing him onto the mattress in his eagerness to express his affection did it fully dawn on Jaskier where exactly things were headed.

“Ger-” He poorly tried to mumble against his lips, the other half of his name drowned out by another kiss, and it was lovely, really. His heart was fluttering, Jaskier felt weightless as they swayed, and momentarily forgot what he’d been about to say when Geralt’s stubble scratched his neck, the bard’s previous line of thought led astray as he laughed at the gesture.

And, really, such was a natural progression of things, was it not?

Jaskier tried telling himself that it was all right. It was all right because it was _Geralt,_ and Geralt would never take too much, would never grow violent and aggressive in his touch, would never hurt him _like that._ It was all right because he knew the Witcher loved him, and Jaskier had learnt long ago that love existed purely through touch. And Geralt’s touch was soft, the Witcher, despite his eagerness, was all too aware of their different morphologies, handled him with care and gentleness, nuzzled his neck and let his hands hover over the skin of his stomach, kindness radiating everywhere he left his mark and Jaskier felt his throat clog up at his thoughtfulness, wanted to cry because he could not appreciate it like he should have. Because of course, his damage caught up with him, then.

It seemed almost surreal that it was merely the burning brush of Geralt’s fingers over his hips, where they hovered a moment before one traced the outline of the bone, his other hand reaching for the laces of his breeches and their intent perfectly clear, that ultimately made Jaskier freeze, daring not to breathe in the moment, his heartbeat wild like a hummingbird’s as rising panic sprouted from his cracked heart.

It was unfair, how Jaskier had been able to fake it, once upon a time, for nameless husbands and ladies in want of a night of physical passion, yet could not do so for Geralt, to whom he’d given his very heart and who he loved far more deeply than any of the fleeting partners he may have had in his life prior to the Witcher. He had let them, then, use their bodies to pin him down, had let them press kisses and bites to his swollen lips, had let them consume whatever pants and whimpers they drew from him with an inquisitive tongue, had let their hands roam over his flesh, burning and marking along their way. It had made them happy, and it had not been Jaskier’s place to doubt or refuse their expression of love.

He just wished he could do that for Geralt, too, when he watched him pull away with a heavy heart and a lump in his throat, his Witcher senses no doubt far more honed than Jaskier had previously given them credit for if he’d so easily caught on to his discomfort. It pained him, to look at him so, bare and vulnerable, all big golden eyes silently begging him to tell him what he had done wrong, and how was Jaskier to tell him that Geralt _hadn’t_ done anything wrong, that it was _he_ who was far too damaged to appreciate him the right way?

“Jaskier?”

There it was, the tremor of uncertainty, like so many before him, only this time, Jaskier did not think he could bear for things to end quite so abruptly. He loved Geralt, loved him like he had no other, the thought of losing him to his own flaw too much to bear, and instead of putting into words what it was he could not give him, he reached out for the Witcher’s retreating hand, leaned up to kiss him one last time with frantic desperation, before this too, crumbled to dust.

Or he would have done, had Geralt’s hand on his chest - strong, steady and infinitely gentle - not halted him.

“You’re not into this, are you?”

He would have answered him, truly, if Jaskier could only grasp the words he needed to tell Geralt what was wrong with him. He tried finding them, tried uttering them into something tangible for him, yet much like they had for most of his life, there were no words for what ailed him so. Jaskier had studied the greatest minds of the Continent, scoured libraries and asked the brightest philosophers in Oxenfurt, had lived and experienced on the road, and never once had he found the answer he’d been searching for. He had nothing to offer Geralt, nothing beyond leaning up and kissing him on the lips, try perhaps to relight the embers of what they’d previously-

“Jaskier, stop.”

Geralt’s hands pushed him back down softly, a touch that was barely there yet infinitely reassuring in it’s gentleness. Geralt, who was whole, and loving and _not broken,_ Geralt who had stopped when so many others had not. There was something heavy in his throat, as Jaskier took in the Witcher’s touch, how it had no ulterior motives, neither beseeching nor hesitant, how it probably should not be anywhere near himself or his defect would spread to Geralt too.

“I-It’s fine,” He said, not daring to look up, not ready to see the disappointment he’d become all too intimately familiar with over the years paint Geralt’s features too. Instead, he tried pushing back against him, tried leaning into the touch of his hand, tried imagining what it would be like, to enjoy it like anyone else would. “Really, it’s okay, we can-“

“No, Jaskier _stop.”_

The hand left his chest, and it was almost worse, for with it surely went the last crumbs of affection Geralt could ever hold for him, now that it must have dawned upon him that Jaskier could never return the intimacy and love he was so deserving of. Like with all the other disappointed lovers he’d left behind, no doubt would he now have to explain himself, find words that poorly described his affliction, watch as Geralt tried and failed to understand before he too decided to walk out of his life, a piece of his heart forever his to hold as he went. Really, Jaskier was stupid to think his pale imitation of love would ever suffice this time when it had not before, and that it felt more painful now that he’d given his heart to the Witcher so completely was really nobody’s fault but his own.

“I’m sorry, Geralt.” He said, voice wavering. After repeating a similar variation of the apology to countless lovers in the past, Jaskier would have thought it would have gotten easier, yet his voice still shook as he said it, for he knew his words would never be enough to voice how _sorry_ he was that this time, it wouldn’t work out, that he could not be what Geralt desired. “I’m so sorry I can’t- It’s not you though, it’s me. Somewhere, I’m fucked up, and I can’t-“

_“Don’t.”_

Jaskier was not certain when the sting of tears decided to manifest, hated how even _this_ he could not hide from Geralt either as the Witcher looked back at him, amber eyes creased in sympathy for a cause he did not quite understand. Even now, even as he looked upon his mockery of affection, of how impossible for him it was to love Geralt the right way, he wasn’t angry, wasn’t upset, wasn’t disappointed, wasn’t anything like his previous lovers had been, like he _should_ be. He wished he could tell him, that it was all right if he wished to vent, it wouldn’t be anything Jaskier hadn’t heard before.

Ever full of surprises, Geralt did no such thing either.

“You don’t want this, and I shouldn’t push. I should have asked first, I apologize.” He said, one hand on his knee, unsure if even _that_ he could touch. Jaskier knew he should probably have pushed the hand away, should let Geralt keep his affections before he ruined him any further, but weak and pliant to his words, he reached out instead, brushed the end of his fingers with his own in acceptance of his apology. “Just because I’m with you does not mean I’m entitled to every part of you.”

“But you deserve-“ He tried to argue, for this was _not_ how things were meant to go. If Geralt meant to share his affections with him, then surely he ought to be allowed to express them as he pleased, did he not?

Geralt, for his part, did not seem like he wished to hear anything of it, one of his fingers coming up gently to silence his lips, “I do not wish for anything you are not willing to freely give. That you’re here, with me, that you stuck by me through everything when so many others left, I think that’s proof enough of the depth of your feelings towards me, don’t you? If you do not want this, then it is not my place to take, I’ll not love you any less because of it.”

Jaskier tried looking for it, knew to expect it with his many disappointed lovers who all promised him they would be satisfied with his damaged affections only to later turn around and ask for what he’d previously refused them anyway, but there were no hidden motives to be found behind Geralt’s words. Just open sincerity, as if the Witcher truly meant it with his whole heart, so much so that the bard had trouble fully accepting them. It went against everything he’d ever known – love was physical, anyone who professed to love would have to indulge another’s flesh at some point, and how could he claim to love Geralt if he never gave him this too? – but he’d said his mere company was enough. Surely… _Surely not?_

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The question was asked so simply he almost missed it over the pounding of his own heart, like Geralt was inquiring about his latest verse or the look he’d get when trying to pin down with painstaking accuracy the colour of the sky a twilight. A couple of words only, perhaps not too much for the Witcher to utter, yet to Jaskier, they meant everything. Looking up at him, then, just to make sure his ears were not once again deceiving him, it was to find curiosity brimming in those golden eyes, but a sincere curiosity, like he really wanted to understand, and, unlike so many others, was not merely after some story to entertain himself with for a good laugh.

Quite rarely did it happen, that Geralt was the one with words, and Jaskier found himself so utterly bereft of them, but the Witcher’s question had robbed him of his voice, hit him straight in the chest and left him wanting for breath, because Geralt _cared._ He cared enough to ask _why_ when so many Jaskier had loved before him had never bothered to even feign interest.

A heavy weight settled in his chest, his very heart touched by his concern, as Jaskier tried very hard to ignore the dampness upon his cheeks, Geralt’s question having somehow released something he’d been clinging to for far too long, and by Melitele did it feel _liberating_ to finally let it go. He nodded when the words would not come, the edge of his lips curled slightly when he felt Geralt’s hands around his own, a quiet strength the Witcher freely gifted him.

“I… I don’t really know how I can explain it. I love, Geralt, just not like that.”

 _Not like that._ Seemed like that one had become somewhat for a life motto of his, Jaskier thought cynically, he’d probably have to write it down somewhere, some day, perhaps it would even make a nice epitaph for his passing. Except that where _‘Not like that’_ had been met with confusion and misunderstanding everywhere he’d travelled, it did not seem to bother Geralt, for when he gazed upon him once more, there was not a hint of judgment to be found upon his features, merely patience and acceptance, fragile little things he almost dared not hold on to.

“Please, please do not believe I love you any less because of it, Geralt, I really, _really,_ don’t. I know it’s perhaps a damaged kind of affection, frayed around the edges and the little pieces glued together, but it’s all I have. I know you deserve more, deserve far better than what I can offer.”

For Jaskier knew, had known all along really, that he could never hope to gift Geralt with what he truly deserved, had foolishly fallen in love with him heedless of his deformed affections, and now, here he was, begging him to accept misshapen shards when he could no doubt easily find someone worthy of him, who could give him something beautiful and whole and not broken.

But Jaskier was weak and wanting for company – _Geralt’s_ company, if he were to be precise, the finest must the Continent could ever gift him, the one person he’d gladly have offered his twisted and ugly heart to in a fleeting second were he to ever ask it of him.

For Geralt who deserved the world, a soft epilogue to his story of hardships and loneliness, who deserved someone who could show him in body and soul the affection he was so worthy of, and to whom Jaskier would never be able to give even a fraction of that, the bard would have been ready to do anything – or almost anything, for even he had limits his body could not cross, even if his heart had long ago left him for the other side. It was in safe hands, with Geralt – Geralt who cared, who would not use it, Geralt who had _stopped._ Jaskier could not have wished even for a second for a better soul to offer it to, even if the Witcher did not want to keep it after this, even if he tossed it away eventually when his fractured pieces proved too much for him to bear. At least it would have been in his care for a moment, no matter how fleeting it may have been.

“I think I ought to be the judge of that.”

Geralt’s warm hands on his shoulders, steady and strong and Jaskier could feel everything it was the Witcher could not put into words through the simple touch, and succumbing to his doomed heart, the poet leaned in when Geralt gave a slight pull, rested his head against his breast, felt the strong beat of his heart – undamaged, alive with a love that was natural – through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“But everybody else can do it,” He mumbled, “It’s how you show someone your affections. What love can I profess to have if I cannot even partake in physically expressing it?”

“You don’t _have_ to,” Geralt said, after a beat, hand pushing him back somewhat as they looked each other in the eyes, “You don’t have to do that, Jaskier, if you don’t like it. It does not make what is _here,”_ He said, one hand hovering over his chest, spared a glance to his deformed heart like it was something to be covetously revered instead of despised, “Any less real, it is yours to experience. Perhaps the way you express what you feel for me is a little different than how most others chose to do so, but it is no less real than the affection I hold for you in my own heart.”

Jaskier wished he could have instantly believed it with his whole being, he truly did, for Geralt’s words had come to have far more value than what may have been said to him by a nameless drunkard in the corner of a tavern or the odd comment by the innkeeper of the shelter they happened to be halting in, yet while his words did perhaps not hit him as hard as he’d have liked, the bard still felt them, as they wedged into his heart, filling the cracks. Perhaps there was a little truth to be found to them, he thought: Geralt did not lie, Geralt had said what he had for him was real, it would take a little time but Jaskier could feel like it was something worth waiting for. He loved Geralt with everything he had, hoped so desperately that he was right.

But still, the problem remained. Geralt had said he didn’t have to, but Jaskier knew well that Geralt enjoyed sharing someone’s bed, that he undoubtedly understood the love there was to be found there like most others on the Continent, what lover could Jaskier profess to be were he never to offer such affections to him too? He wished, still, that he could want it, that he could love Geralt like that too, even if the thought of doing it still sent a shiver down his spine even now, awoke nothing of affectionate intimacy in his breast. “What if I never want to?”

“Then you never want to.” Geralt said simply, like it was not even a question for him, “Your company, your affections, your songs and your writings, they are all more than enough for me, _you_ are enough the way you are, Jaskier. I’m not choosing to be with you because I believe myself entitled to your flesh or because I think you’ll be an easy lay, I wish to be with you for _you,_ for what you’ll let me have. I’ll not take anything you do not willingly wish to give.”

“That’s it?” Jaskier asked, raising a sceptical eyebrow, for surely it could not be as easy as this? “No talk of how I’ll eventually want it, or how you can show me?”

“No, you are the way you are, _whole._ It is not my place to change that, I do not see anything needing to be fixed.”

Well, maybe it _was_ just that easy, he mused as Geralt’s simple words seemingly allowed something within him to become completely undone. He crumpled into his arms, muffling a sob into his shoulder as a heavy burden he’d carried around with him his whole life finally lifted. It was still difficult to accept, that his affections were no less whole than that of the countless lovers he’d had in the past, that Jaskier merely _telling_ Geralt he loved him meant just as much as actually acting on it, when so many before him had had little regard for his grand words, thought them superficial more than anything else, held little weight when compared to him sharing with them both his body and his bed.

But Geralt didn’t seem to mind, Geralt was all right with that kind of affection.

“So I’m not damaged then, even if I never enjoyed it?”

“No, you’re not.”

“But you enjoy it.” He still countered.

“I do. You’re not me though, you’re… _You.”_ Geralt said, awkwardly trying to find his words to explain what it was he meant. It was sweet, in an endearing sort of way. “And the love you freely give me every day will forever be a thousand times more tangible than the pale imitation I’ve had the leisure of indulging in with strangers in the sheets. That’s a different kind of love to me, an ephemeral passion and pleasure I enjoy, but it’s not the same, it doesn’t mean as much. I don’t love them like I do you. You are the way you are, and that is more than enough for me.”

He clung to him tighter, then, Jaskier’s heart – whole and loveable and _not_ broken or damaged – felt heavy and full with the weight of Geralt’s honest affection, as he let his words sink into his skin, begin to heal a lifetime of doubt and uncertainty. Geralt who he trusted, who he loved, the poet thought he could believe this also, or begin to, at any rate. His skin tingled, as an intangible blanket of acceptance was draped over his shoulders. Perhaps it would take his own heart a little longer to acknowledge, but here in the Witcher’s arms, Jaskier felt he could at last move forward in his understanding.

He was just Jaskier, and Jaskier and what he was willing to offer was enough, for Geralt.

He looked back up at him, then, a thousand words of gratitude on the tip of his tongue, yet nothing seemed to be quite enough to truly capture the magnitude of what he wished to tell him, and so he leaned up to kiss him instead, the Witcher not stopping him this time. He hoped he could pour everything his lips could not utter into it, held him close and let Geralt feel his racing heartbeat beneath his shirt. It felt light, and liberating, when Jaskier felt dampness upon his cheeks once again, sought not to chase his tears away as he freed himself of a burden he’d been carrying for far too long and chose instead to embrace who he was.

That night, when they eventually gave in to sleep, curled around each other, Jaskier’s hand upon Geralt’s heart and the Witcher’s arm tucked around his shoulder, Jaskier felt elated, the answer to a lifelong question finally in his hands. He began to understand what it was, then, the kind of affection he and Geralt shared, that it was no lesser than that of any other lover. He knew it would take time, no doubt, for him to fully accept it, for it to feel somewhat normal, but no longer was there a looming apprehension at the thought of taking the time to delve into it, and with Geralt there – Geralt who loved him for who he was and who had promised to _stay_ \- the mosaic of once little broken shards suddenly did not look so misshapen and ugly anymore.

The thought of waking up to something beautiful, of one day gazing upon the full picture with Geralt by his side when he finally accepted his mended heart - a heart that had never really been broken to begin with - was a comforting last thought to have, before giving in to the gentle lull of sleep.

He had an entire lifetime, to fully _live_ the affections he now knew he had, learn to love them too, for they were _his_ and they were _whole._

Jaskier felt he was more than content with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you liked it :)


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